Jonny McCambridge: Recreating the Diet Coke Break ad...when building furniture

When my wife and son are in the house, the boiler will be bubbling happily and the radiators are toasty. But, during those long hours when one is at work and the other at school and I am my own company, I usually don’t flick the switch.

I justify enduring the cold by reminding myself that it saves a few quid. I put on a jumper and keep myself busy.

But on the coldest of January days, stubbornness is in danger of giving way to masochism. Sitting at my computer I am wearing a jumper, body-warmer, coat, woolly hat and typing gloves, but the noise of my teeth chattering still drowns out the clack of my fingertips on the keyboard.

I know that the sure antidote to the cold is exercise. But, as I sit there miserably, I have never felt less like engaging in vigorous movement. There is a time to admit you are licked.

I turn on the heating.

As I am returning to my seat there is a knock at the door. I open it to reveal a smiling delivery man and a number of large boxes on my doorstep. This is not unusual as my wife often orders goods online. However, these are particularly large boxes.

As I drag them to the front room, I recollect her telling me that she had ordered furniture – two new chests of drawers. My response was instantaneous and pointed.

“Do they have to be built?”

Her response was non-committal.

These large boxes are clearly not shaped like chests of drawers. It is obviously flat-pack furniture.

Grumpily, I leave them in the corner of the large room and walk away. As I return to my computer I am mumbling "I didn’t buy them…nothing to do with me.”

While it had previously been the cold which prevented me from concentrating on work, now it is the large boxes. I find myself walking past the room to peer at them every few minutes, before emitting a grunt of affected apathy and moving on.

After less than an hour, I decide I should probably look inside one of the boxes, just to be sure they have sent the right stuff.

Fifteen minutes on, all of the cardboard is torn apart and there are hundreds of bits of wood, screws, nails and fittings carpeting the carpet. With my glasses perched at the end of my nose, I peer at the instruction manual.

There are countless pages.

First, I wrestle with a quandary. The end destination of the two chests of drawers is an upstairs bedroom. However, there are hundreds of pieces and not the space to assemble it upstairs.

On the other hand, if I build It at ground level it will be much too heavy to transport up a floor.

I come up with an ingenious solution. I will build small sections in the living room and then carry them to the bedroom to conclude the assembly there. I find the large section of wood labelled ‘1’ and begin to insert screws.

From this moment time loses meaning. No other work will be completed, no dinner cooked, no messages responded to – it is just me and the chest of drawers.

I am a stickler for process because I am terrified of making a mistake at step 37 but not noticing it until I get to step 114, and then having to spend hours undoing all the labour. I lay the wood out exactly at the angle it appears in the little drawing and I move around it, rather than moving it to suit me.

The work goes on. Hundreds of screws are inserted, pieces of timber are slotted together, tacks are hammered on, rails which will allow the drawers to run freely are painstakingly fitted at the correct angle. I go up and down the stairs, over and over, carrying little bits of assembled furniture.

I realise that I am boiling warm. I place my hand on the radiator, but the fierce heat makes me retract it quickly. Even though I can see the frost thick on the windscreen of my car through the window, the heat is turned off again.

But it is not enough to restore my comfort. Each time I go up the stairs I lose another layer. First the hat is discarded, then the body-warmer, the jumper. Eventually, as a line of sweat runs down my spine, I change into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

It is much later. The first chest of drawers is complete and the basic skeleton of the second is taking shape. The sweat is stinging my eyes to an extent that it is becoming difficult to read the instructions.

I go to the kitchen to get a refreshing drink. Before I do, I remove my thin T-shirt. It does not escape my attention that this is all slightly reminiscent of the famous old Diet Coke Break TV ad – apart from the fact that I’ve got a great big belly.

It is fully dark before I am finally nearing the end. The work now is slow and precise. There is a frustration in being so close to the conclusion of a long journey, but not quite there yet.

I am testing one of the drawers, sliding it in and out of the fitting, when I hear the front door opening and the voices of my wife and son. I am surprised at how late it is. "Are you there?” my wife calls. “We were trying to call you?”

This is quickly followed by “Oh my goodness, the house is freezing!”

And then the voice of my son, “Daddy hasn’t even bothered to turn the heat on!”

It would be reasonable to surmise that they are both startled and confused at the sight of the bare-chested, bare-legged, sweaty man descending the stairs, loudly protesting “It’s not my fault! I didn’t buy the furniture!”